


fit for burning

by TheSilverQueen



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Regency, Arranged Marriage, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 09:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11483397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: Even many years later, Hannibal isn’t quite able to put into words what, exactly, drew him to step off the beaten path and take a detour to a nearby stream, although he supposes seeing an enormous crowd of pitchfork-wielding peasants gathered around a pyre to burn a supposed witch-boy is reason enough."Useless things are fit only for burning," the boy - Will Graham - tells him, so Hannibal plucks him off the pyre and goes about making him useful as his apprentice.





	fit for burning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purefoysgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purefoysgirl/gifts).



> This is a (belated) Happy Birthday give to our darling [Jade](https://jadegreenworks.tumblr.com/), although they also go by [purefoysgirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/purefoysgirl/pseuds/purefoysgirl) here on AO3. 
> 
> It's an Overcoming remix, kinda, about what if that famous mantra about useless things and burning had been taken a tad more literally where Will was concerned - and Hannibal had stopped by to poke his nose in because it's Hannibal. I hope you like it, darling!!!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This fanfic was made completely independent of Jade (aside from me asking permission to borrow stuff, obvs) and so do not take anything I've written to indicate what's going to happen in Overcoming. Just so we're all clear.

Even many years later, Hannibal isn’t quite able to put into words what, exactly, drew him to step off the beaten path and take a detour to a nearby stream. It would only have taken him, perhaps, ten more minutes to reach the main camp and rejoin the rest of the soldiers, where they would have had more – and likely cleaner – water to quench his thirst. And in fact that river water had tasted so terrible that it really had done little to help him at all.

At this point in the story, of course, is when Will would lean against his side and drawl, “Oh, darling, are you too embarrassed to admit that your clever nose scented me before you even know who I was? Because last night I seem to recall you enjoyed my scent quite – ”

And Hannibal would cover his mate’s mouth and turn – not red, because the Lord Hannibal Lecter never got flustered or lost his composure – a faint sort of salmon color and clear his throat and say, “Well, in any case, that is when I came across a most alarming sight – ”

“Yes, a boy without his clothes, how shocking to a _doctor_ of all – ”

“Will,” Hannibal’s grandfather would say, eyes twinkling, “perhaps you might wish to let your husband speak before he chokes on his tongue.”

“But of course, Grandfather,” Will would say, so sweetly that the tea would seem dull in comparison, “I would never want my dear husband to ever be at a loss for words! The world would end, surely.”

And then Hannibal would try to glare, except then Will would smile at him and it would end up being a sort of besotted, cross-eyed look, and the guests would sigh, patronizingly if they disliked Hannibal and amusedly if they liked Will, and finally, at last, Hannibal would be allowed to tell his side of the story.

At least until the trout entered, anyways.

* * *

It is the shouts that alert Hannibal first. They make him tense before he’s quite processed exactly what he’s hearing, but when he finally makes out the word “witch” shouted over and over again, he sighs and ends up walking over to investigate. 

Hannibal is a doctor, after all, and a man of science. He knows all too well there are no such things as witches.

That is not to say, of course, that the boy they are attempting to burn at the stake is not bewitching. His hair is comprised of beautiful brown curls, even soaked as they are – the peasants must have attempted to drown him and found that the boy floated. He is clad only in a thin white shift, although of course between his struggles and the water, most of his skin is bared to the sun and the rest is quite open to viewing for anyone to ogle. He is slender, possibly underfed, and he looks as pale as though he has never seen the sun. If Hannibal was more inclined to poetry, he might compare the boy to a young colt – awkward sometimes, but with unblemished skin and unbroken spirit. Even now, as the people call on him to confess his crimes, he glares at them with the ferocity of a day-old kitten.

Then, of course, the boy looks up, and their eyes meet, and Hannibal’s breath stutters in his lungs.

Perhaps kitten is an underestimation. Perhaps tiger might be more suited.

But the boy does not beg, does not struggle or cry out or even weep. He just blinks, only once, and then someone throws a rock and his eyes snap back to the crowd and Hannibal is released, but only briefly. 

It is as if he thinks no one will come to his aid, as if his life is worthless, and Hannibal has treated far too many soldiers who begged him to help other comrades because their wounds were “just a scratch” for that to be the end. When the torch is lit, Hannibal swings atop his stallion and kicks him forward, and the crowd scatters with gasps and screams and cries as he charges through.

“Enough,” he says, and kicks away the torch contemptuously. “Of what crimes is this child accused?”

For a long moment, there is silence.

It’s to be expected. Hannibal is in his full dress uniform, with all of its glittering buttons and gleaming medals, a sword on one side and a dagger on the other, with a snorting, pawing stallion beneath him. Many, he suspects, have seen the soldiers in passing, but never so close.

“Well,” Hannibal remarks, “if you cannot tell me, then I suppose he is innocent.”

That provokes a reaction.

“He’s a witch!” cries one.

“Unnatural!” says another.

“Spawn the devil, he is!” shouts a third.

Hannibal turns his head, just a little, until he can meet the boy’s eyes again. Boy, perhaps, is inaccurate too. He’s small for his age, but Hannibal would put him at least sixteen or seventeen years of age. “Well,” he says mildly, “are you a witch?”

The boy snorts. “If reading and counting numbers is a sign of the devil,” he answers scornfully.

“But he knows things! Things that cannot possibly be known!” one person screeches.

“Oh? Like what?”

“Like – like – like when storms are coming! When the yield of the crops will be bad! When the sun is to be swallowed! It is the sign of the devil walking among us, I tell you, please, sir, for your own good, let us send the devil back to where he belongs!”

Hannibal hums. “And why, pray tell, should I do that?” he asks mildly. “When I can do the same?”

A hush falls over the crowd.

“This is not sorcery, I tell you,” Hannibal continues, raising his voice. “I am a soldier of the crown, a doctor of medicine, a man of science – not witchcraft. I can do all those things and more, with the aid of science and math and books. Would you call me a devil too? Would you cast me down from this horse and bind my limbs and set the torch to me as well? Well? Would you?”

Perhaps the crowd is persuaded by his words or – more likely – they are intimidated by his loud voice, his shiny uniform, and the way his horse stomps and snorts, but either way, slowly but surely, they begin to disperse. And when the last of them has gone, Hannibal dismounts and begins the arduous task of cutting the poor boy free.

He smells like river muck and damp wood, and it stinks, but the boy does not struggle, thankfully, and soon he is free.

His first words, though, nearly cause Hannibal to stab himself as he sheathes his sword. “You should have let them,” he says, almost carelessly, rubbing absently at the welts on his wrist.

“Burn you?”

“Yes. They already tried drowning, as you can see, but alas,” the boy says, mock mournfully, “I have the devilish skill of swimming.”

Hannibal looks him up and down and wonders if perhaps he has freed a madman. “Do you know how painful it is to go by fire? And you would have me let you burn regardless? Has your sanity departed you?”

“No, something worse – my usefulness. And useless things are fit only for burning.”

The remark sounds like a prayer, almost, reverent and quiet and sacred. Like a mantra, drilled into someone’s head day by day. Or perhaps, he thinks, looking at this thin body and the old, shadowed bruises he can see now that he is closer, beaten into someone day by day.

Hannibal hates the mantra immediately. 

“If you can read and count and learn,” he says, perhaps a little too sharply, “then you are not worthless. Come. I have been wanting an apprentice.”

And apparently that it is not at all what the boy expected him to say, because for a moment the defiance and the cool mask drop away, and Hannibal is looking at a regular sixteen year old boy, half-drowned and nearly-burnt, shivering and naked and alone. “I – I beg your pardon?” he stutters.

Hannibal extends his hand. He won’t force the boy to make this choice. “I said, I have been looking for an apprentice. The battlefield is never lacking for medics. If you can read and count and learn, if you are willing to adapt and become, I am more than willing to spirit you away from this godforsaken place.”

A ghost of a smile touches the boy’s lips. “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”

“We all have our secrets.”

The boy nods once, decisively. “Very well. I suppose I have nowhere else to go,” he sighs. “You’re a better choice than starving in the woods.”

“I saved your life, and you think so little of me?”

“Yes.”

The bluntness makes Hannibal smile, and it feels strange and almost painful. He has not smiled in so long, on the battlefield. He sheds his outer coat and hands it to the boy, who takes it with a murmured thanks. _At least,_ Hannibal thinks, _he is polite._

Hannibal boosts the boy up into the saddle and tries very valiantly not to stare at the pale length of skin. To distract himself, he says, “And what is your name?”

“My name is Will Graham,” the boy answers, “and you are Lord Hannibal Lecter.”

 _He knows things that cannot possibly be known._ Hannibal does not believe in witchcraft, no, he does not, but just for a moment . . . “And what makes you say that, Mr. Graham?”

Will smirks and waves a little scroll of paper, sealed shut with Hannibal’s stamp. “It fell from your pocket,” he says innocently.

“A likely story,” Hannibal tells him, but he smiles as he says it, and if Will leans hesitantly back into Hannibal’s chest for warmth as they ride back into camp and Hannibal lets him smear water muck all over his uniform, well – it won’t do at all to have his apprentice die before he can even begin to get some use out of him.

* * *

After a warm meal, a nice long nap, and a fresh bath and clothing, Will emerges from Hannibal’s tent looking much less like a possible witch and much more like just a regular young man. He’s combed his hair and brushed his teeth and scrubbed quite vigorously, and if Hannibal were to pass him on the streets in the capital he wouldn’t even have spared Will a second glance. He’s not sure how Will came to be in such a tiny little backwards village; he carries himself with the grace of nobility, and even eats with careful little bites and practiced wielding of the proper cutlery. 

Most of Hannibal’s comrades give Will a wide berth, but that’s okay; one day, Hannibal is quite sure, his newfound apprentice will prove his worth.

“So, Will Graham,” Hannibal starts, watching as Will rolls out the spare bedroll Hannibal procured and makes a little nest of the spare blankets, “would you mind telling me how you came to be . . .”

“Nearly burnt to the death for witchcraft?” Will finishes dryly, when it becomes apparent that Hannibal won’t. He shakes his head, his curls tumbling about, and curls up into his little nest like a tiny kitten. “It’s not exactly a riveting tale, my lord. My father lost his wealth and his wife and his standing, and he removed us to the countryside. He discouraged me from . . . mingling with the common folk, as he called them, and I suppose wandering around town with my nose in a book didn’t exactly help things. He died two days ago.”

Hannibal gives him a sharp look. Will’s tone is blank and monotone, as if he were reciting the names of the bones of the body (which he actually can quite well, Hannibal quizzed him over dinner and found his knowledge of anatomy to be sparse, but rather more than Hannibal expected). “You do not mourn his passing?”

“He had been ill for quite some time. I was . . . prepared.”

“Hmm.” Hannibal’s not quite sure whether to believe him or not. Some deaths, he does know from experience, take so long that when they do happen, one breathes a sigh of sadness that mingles with relief. Others . . . Others can never be quite forgotten.

“And what of you, my lord?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What drove you to abandon your home and hearth for the bloodstained battlefields of the front?”

Hannibal sighs. It’s only fair for Will to ask, he supposes. “I was . . . looking for somewhere to belong. There are so few here skilled enough in medicine.”

It’s not really an answer, and they both know it. But Will doesn’t call him out on it the way Hannibal nearly did, so after a long moment, by mutual agreement, Hannibal blows out the candle, and they begin to sleep.

* * *

Will is a quick study and a steady worker. He does not complain about constantly fetching more water to boil to wash out wounds or the long, sweaty hours bent over vomiting patients as Hannibal patiently stitches them back together. He watches with curious eyes, and sometimes he talks to patients to distract them, telling tales that Hannibal suspects he once read in those books he spoke of. 

Slowly but surely, the soldiers begin to accept Will. He is kind and quiet, he says nothing of the secrets and screams they yield in the tents, and he shows no aversion to getting dirty or hearing bawdy talk around the fire.

And Hannibal, after one too many nights being awoken by Will tossing and turning in the sheets, finally one day just grunts, “Will. Get over here.”

“What?”

“I said, get over here. It’s too cold and early for this.”

“I’m fine, my lord, I promise – ”

Hannibal, out of patience and exhausted after an hours-long surgery, rolls over and leans down and seizes Will’s arm, dragging his reluctant apprentice from his tiny nest and up into Hannibal’s cot. Will, startled, freezes like a guilty child with his hand in the cookie jar, and Hannibal takes full advantage of it to tuck Will under his own nest of blankets. Will is cold, very cold actually, and Hannibal grumbles even as he curls around the boy.

“My lord,” Will says. “This is – ”

“Hush,” Hannibal scolds. He presses his nose to Will’s neck and inhales, smelling nothing but the faint scent of soap. “I promise you that I have no designs on you. But you are cold and I am tired, so this seems like the most expedient route to solve both problems at once.”

Will wriggles like a worm on the line. “I promise you, I was fine in my own blankets,” he protests stubbornly.

“I have no desire to wake up to an icicle instead of my apprentice.”

“Hannibal,” Will says, and Hannibal opens his eyes because Will has never, ever called him by his first name. He has persistently referred to Hannibal by either his title or his rank no matter how many times Hannibal has asked or ordered him otherwise. 

“Yes?”

For a long moment, he thinks Will is going to slide out anyways and they’re going to have an actual fight, but then Will hesitantly leans back against him, folding his arms and legs beneath him like a fawn as he curls close, and Will says, very quietly, “Thank you.”

Hannibal hums. He’s never been one of the Alphas pressed to provide for anyone and anything he saw as pack or family, but Will’s words make something go warm and soft in his chest, and he can’t help the way he drapes a gentle arm around Will and draws him close, so that they will be both warm and smug to face the chilliness of morning. Alpha camaraderie, he thinks to himself, and closes his eyes and inhales Will’s warm scent again. “You’re welcome, Will,” he murmurs in return, and they both know it’s more than just tonight, but it’s late and so they sleep.

* * *

Then, quite suddenly, a week is gone, and then two, and then an entire month passes, and Hannibal can’t quite imagine what his life was like beforehand, in his lonely tent, now that Will is there with his smiles and his warmth and his gentle laugh.

Of course, it’s only now – now that Will has finally stopped flinching or hesitating to ask for things – that they face their first real battle, and suddenly there is a great need for two doctors instead of one.

Hannibal gives Will a narrow look, shoves a bundle of thread and cloth into his arms, and points to the other end of the tent. “Go.”

“My lord?”

“There are too many to wait for me to treat them. You know the basis, and you’ve watched me long enough. Go.”

“I . . .”

And this is no time for softness, but Hannibal remembers back during his own apprenticeship, how gently his mentor had guided him into action during his first bloodbath, and Will is quite a great deal younger than Hannibal had been back then, so Hannibal takes one quick moment and leans down to press their cheeks together, mixing their scents, and if it’s as much for Will to be reassured by him as it is for him to take strength from Will’s clean scent, well, that’s Hannibal’s own secret to have and to hold.

“Go,” Hannibal repeats gently, and Will gives him a solemn nod and scurries off.

After that, there is no more time to talk. Hannibal stitches and cuts and washes, treating soldier after soldier, and every time he does his best even if sometimes there is little to do. Will handles the influx of the wounded as they come in, performing immediate triage to tide them over until Hannibal can attend to them or treating the smaller wounds himself. It’s a godsend, many of the soldiers tell Hannibal, to have two devoted medics who don’t flinch and work steadily, and Hannibal realizes just how right they are hours later when Will comes over to place a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Go,” Will tells him, and Hannibal – exhausted by yet another surgery – blinks dumbly up at him. “Go, my lord, and sleep a little. You have treated the most pressing cases, and now you need rest before you end up among your patients.”

“I cannot possibly – ”

Will, cheeky little brat, actually pinches him. “Go, Hannibal, and sleep,” he orders. “I will attend to the rest for now and wake you if I truly need you, but for god’s sake go and get a nap, at least.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in God,” Hannibal parrots back at him.

Will shuts the tent door in his face, an impressive feat considering the tent door is just a flap of canvass, and Hannibal goes off to his bed and face plants into the pillows and inhales Will’s scent and falls into a deep sleep.

They trade off shifts from then on, catching little naps whenever possible, until finally the flood begins to slow and comes to a final, shuddering stop, and they’ve done all they can. That night, the first night they can sleep at the same time, they bathe and change and crawl into bed together as though they’ve done it a million times, and it’s natural for Will to curl up into a little ball and for Hannibal to wrap an arm around his waist as they drift off. It’s right and natural and Hannibal wonders, at the back of his mind, what his grandfather would say if – after the war – Hannibal dragged Will all the way home with him. He’s sure his grandfather wouldn’t disagree too much. Will is clever and well-mannered and needs someone to reintroduce him to society, and no one will bat an eye at a doctor of Hannibal’s caliber taking on a younger apprentice.

Besides, with an apprentice to train, he won’t have nearly the time he needs to get a wife and children until later.

It’s a good plan, Hannibal tells himself, and then he sleeps.

* * *

Then comes the news that the war is drawing to an end. Most of the men celebrate, but Will just goes quiet and slinks off back to their tent looking like he’s about to be put on the pyre again.

Hannibal, frowning, follows him. “Will?”

Will determinedly does not look up from the pile of bandages he’s steadily mending. “Yes, my lord?”

And that’s a sign of anything; ever since that night in the medic’s tent, Will hasn’t stopped using his first name. Hannibal had felt honored, in a way, even if he knew it didn’t make much sense to feel honored at someone using his first name instead of his title.

“You are troubled? By the news of the ending war?”

“No. I am troubled at the consideration of where, exactly, I must go after the war.”

“Soldiers are well reimbursed,” Hannibal remarks dryly. Gallows humor, Will had called that tone of voice once, and Hannibal had thrown a towel at his head and continued dressing. “I’m sure you’ll have enough money to do whatever you want.”

“Hmm.”

Hannibal sits on their bed and looks at Will, truly looks. He looks a damn sight better than the day Hannibal dragged into camp, there’s no arguing that. He’s clean and dressed in good clothing and has actually gained some weight to hide the too-prominent ribs of before. With a good tailor, he could pass for a lord himself. 

“Will,” he says, before he can lose his nerve, “I have a proposition for you.”

“If it’s to trade shift in the medic tent, the answer is no – you need your sleep, Hannibal.”

“What?” Hannibal says, and then he remembers that other argument, which had ended swiftly when Will had deftly tied Hannibal’s hand to the tent pole and stomped away as Hannibal debated how embarrassing it would be to shout after him. “No. Will, I mean – I mean for after the war. I mean for you to come home with me.”

Will’s needle stops mid-stitch. “I am not going to be your bedwarmer.”

“No, not as – as an apprentice, Will, for god’s sake. I am a doctor. I mean to be your mentor and reintroduce you to society. I would not shame you as a bedwarmer, you’re an Alpha in your own right. You will be a great doctor if you let me help you.”

Will looks at him with clever, sad eyes, and Hannibal knows exactly what he’s going to say before he says it. “I am sorry, my lord, but I must decline.”

“Why?”

“I was not aware that being my mentor entitled you to my secrets.”

Hannibal starts to argue, to debate, maybe even to plead, but just then a soldier knocks politely on their tent and says, “Dr. Lecter? A letter for you.”

The first sentence of the letter is enough to drive the thought of society or an apprenticeship or even the war straight out of Hannibal’s mind. In fact, Hannibal nearly forgets about Will entirely, because the first line Hannibal’s grandfather sends to him says that he prays for Hannibal’s speedy and safe return from the front because he has found an Omega he thinks will be suitable for Hannibal to marry.

He isn’t even aware that he’s shaking until Will, quite warily, says, “Hannibal?”

“I – Will. My apologies.”

“Is something wrong? Can I help? Hannibal, what is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

Will frowns and clambers onto the bed, leaning into Hannibal’s side. It’s comforting, even if he knows it’s going to be impossible to truly explain to Will, who has been out of society for almost his entire life. But he also knows that Will is going to needle him and poke him and bother him until he spills, so he knows it’s better to get it over now than for Will to steal the letter and read it himself.

“It’s my grandfather,” Hannibal says, folding the letter very, very carefully so that it does not rip in his anger. “He means for me to return so that he may marry me off to some – some _omega_.”

Will blinks at him, as if Hannibal’s merely noted that the weather will be sunny tomorrow. “And?”

“Ah, yes, you’ve never had the – the pleasure of being in the company of an omega. They are vain, vicious, foolish little creatures, who think nothing of singing songs and painting pictures and wasting money and time and energy. They would charm you out of house and home and funnel your entire estate’s income into frivolous jewels and parties forgotten as soon as they were held. I absolutely refuse to be party to any marriage to one of those, those _creatures_ ,” Hannibal spits, because some memories cannot be forgotten or forgiven, and he cannot possibly let poor naïve Will be ensnared in the tragedy that is the favor of an omega.

Perhaps the venom in his tone was a bit much, though – Will draws back and looks at him as though Hannibal has turned into a snake that threatens to bite him.

“Not all omegas can be like that, surely,” Will says cautiously. 

Hannibal smiles grimly. “Ah, Will, I have met many and you have met none, so please, trust my experience and heed my warning. To be wanted by an omega is perhaps the worst fate of all, and to be bound by marriage to one is . . . unthinkable. If you are ever in such a situation, run far, far away. I promise you I will help you if ever you need it to escape that.”

Will nods jerkily and stands up, so suddenly that it makes Hannibal’s neck hurt to look at him. “I – thank you, my lord, I shall heed your words. I must – I need to go. I’m sorry.”

And Will runs out of the tent as if the horses of the Wild Hunt themselves are on his tail, leaving Hannibal blinking in his wake.

* * *

Will does not return that night or the next. He has not abandoned the camp, for Hannibal knows he would be questioned by many if Will actually left, and he can see that Will is still slipping into their tent to change clothing and catch brief little naps in their bed, but he sees neither hide nor hair of Will, and it’s quite a feat given that Hannibal is trying very hard to find him.

Finally, though, after a solid week, Hannibal gives up and trots off into the woods. He knows there’s a little clearing not too far that Will likes to head off to for peace and quiet for time to time, and he’s mostly left Will alone because he understands the need, but honestly, a week of avoiding Hannibal is enough. The war is definitely coming to an end, and Hannibal means to extract either a promise for Will to keep in touch or an agreement to allow him to take Will on as an apprentice.

He finds the clearing with little trouble. Will’s been clever and stepped lightly or else jumped from tree to tree or something, because the path is hardly worn into the grass at all, but Hannibal used to attend many hunting parties and he knows how to track his prey. 

Will is not present, but there are clear signs of small fires in the past, as well as a line strung up for either hanging clothing or food to dry. Hannibal settles against a tree to wait.

An hour later, Will emerges, carrying a fish over one shoulder and a bag of herbs in another. He does not seem to notice Hannibal, half-hidden in the shadows against a tree, and he sets to work expertly peeling apart and mashing the herbs into some sort of paste. At first Hannibal think it is some sort of medicinal pouch, maybe, for the soldiers or perhaps some flavoring for the fish, but Will instead sniffs it gently and then gives it a little lick before he starts liberally applying it to his skin, especially his neck and other scent areas, and Hannibal is so taken aback he abandons his plan of confronting Will when he’s sat down and relaxed and instead he leaps forward and grabs Will’s hand.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Hannibal demands, ignoring Will’s cry of shock. “That could kill you! What are you doing to yourself?”

“Let me go!” Will snarls, and he’s a far cry from the smiling, laughing apprentice Hannibal’s grown used to. Now he is as fierce as the tiger Hannibal once thought he was on the pyre, eyes alight and claws sharpened. “Get your hands off of me!”

Hannibal shakes him, impatiently, but Will refuses to let go of the paste so Hannibal snatches it from him and sniffs it himself, which is when Will apparently loses his patience and grabs the trout and coshes Hannibal clear across the face with the trout he’d laid out across the rock. It startles Hannibal so much that he does, actually, release Will and has even backed up a few steps, but it’s too late.

With the fresh scent of Will lingering in his nose to compare to the paste Hannibal snatched away, it’s all too clear why Will steals away to this clearing, why he applies the paste, why he ran from Hannibal with fear in his eyes.

Will is an _Omega_.

Compared to the fresh and clear but rather dull scent of the paste Will’s been applying for god knows how long, Will’s real scent is like old pine trees and warm apple pies and honey. He smells amazing and Hannibal wants to grab him again and sniff so more, and only Will’s threatening wave of the trout still in his hand stays Hannibal from doing exactly that. Which is good, because it gives Hannibal time to come to his sense and realize he had been about to sniff an Omega.

“You – You’re an omega,” Hannibal says blankly.

Will bears his teeth. Gone is the placid boy Hannibal helped off the pyre; here is the fierce, dangerous tiger that the crowd had wanted to burn. “Yes, I am,” he says defiantly. “What of it? Why should you care?”

“If I had known – ”

“If you had known, then what?” Will snarls. “You would have what, saved me and brought me to town and plied me with food and clothing? Or you would have mated me and let me live in a life of luxury?”

“I would have brought you to town, at the very least! War is too dangerous for the likes of your kind.”

Will laughs scornfully. “I can fight, Lord Lecter. My father taught me how to wield the blade and kick Alphas in the privates as well as anyone else. And go ahead, try telling me your war is more dangerous than being burned at the stake!”

“War is no place for omegas!”

“Why, because _you_ say so?”

“Your kind are distracting! And foolish and witless and faint of heart! I should have – ”

“What? Left me to burn?” Will’s eyes burn so bright it’s like he’s on fire himself, and Hannibal shuts his mouth for fear of being scorched. “The great Lord Hannibal Lecter, the man of medicine and science, tell me this: would you have saved me, if you’d known I was an omega? Or would you have left me to burn?”

Hannibal feels his mouth open and his jaws work, but he has no answer. His shame is like a bucket poured on his head, dousing the flames of his indignation and his fury, because quite honestly, he’s not sure what he would have done, if he had known Will was an omega.

And that is more of a shock than anything else.

Will, however, takes his silence for an affirmative. He nods once, decisively, and then yanks the remaining paste from Hannibal’s hand and applies it deftly, never once breaking his eye contact. “As I thought,” he remarks bitterly. “Well. Now you know why I could never be your apprentice, Lord Lecter. Good day. I shall remove my distracting and foolish and witless and useless self from your tent immediately and be gone by morning. You will need not concern yourself with me again. If you like, you may tell the others that I deceived you and you cast me out for my deception. It won’t even be a lie, coming from you.”

And with that, he stalks off, and to his everlasting shame, Hannibal is not quite so angry that he able to resist staring at Will as he leaves.

* * *

At first, Hannibal is angry. Furious, even. This creature had taken advantage of his hospitality and wormed his way into Hannibal’s unit and eaten his food and laughed with him and – 

_And what?_ Hannibal asks himself. _For what?_

Hannibal is a lord, certainly, and he is a higher rank of officer, but out here on the front that means little. He gets the same rations, the same tent, the same supplies. His wealth back home means nothing here. And Will had not asked for anything except a little food, a little water, and some place to rest. Hannibal had had to practically threaten to tie him down to get Will to agree and help as his apprentice.

Will had not tried to secure a promise for more money. Will had not tried to climb into his bed and seduce him. Will had not even tried to say he was an omega and see how much better accommodations he would have gotten on top of the sympathy for nearly being burned alive.

He had eaten the same food, drank the same water, slept in the same cot. He had served at Hannibal’s side unflinchingly, soldiering through the long nights and bloody operations. He had gone toe to toe with Hannibal and _ordered_ him to go to sleep, and if anyone else had had the audacity, Hannibal might have bared his teeth at the challenge and fought a fellow Alpha.

Perhaps that had been the first clue, he thinks, the fact that he hadn’t felt driven to fight a fellow Alpha. 

Distracting? Hardly. Will had been steady and competent and helped Hannibal in every way he could.

Foolish? Absolutely not. Will had never asked for jewels or fine food or a larger tent. He had known war meant rations and going hungry, and he had never wasted food or supplies.

Witless? Certainly not. Will had asked some silly questions, in the beginning, but Will had also not had Hannibal’s education or experience, and he’d never once flinched from the job at hand.

Useless?

Hannibal thinks of the joy of Will’s laugh, of his steady hand as he tended to patients, of the warmth of his lithe body curled into Hannibal’s bed, and feels rightly and thoroughly ashamed of himself.

 _Not all Omegas are the same,_ Hannibal’s grandfather had written, immediately after his announcement that he was searching for an omega for Hannibal to marry. _Just as not all Alphas are the same. I hope one day for you to come to your senses, realize your unfair prejudice, and face the world like the Lord you truly are._

One day, Hannibal’s grandfather had said, as though it was as little a thing as the weather and not as grave as a terrible slight against a third of the population.

A raindrop falls from the sky and lands on Hannibal’s face, and he sighs. It’s a good a sign as any, he imagines, to start the journey back. He has a long-overdue apology to make and a rather flighty Omega to find. Assuming, of course, that Will doesn’t just cosh him over the head with another trout on sight.

He might deserve it, though.

* * *

By some chance, Will has not already fled from the camp by the time Hannibal trudges back, soaked to the bone and grumpy. There is a candle lit in their tent, and Hannibal can see the outline of Will packing quickly in the corner. Hannibal takes a deep breath to steel himself and steps inside.

Will does not even flinch. “I’m almost done, my lord. You needn’t worry.”

“Please stop. Do not leave on my account.”

“No one is listening or judging you,” Will says, almost absently, sorting through his clothing and making two stacks. One, he imagines is for Will to take, but Will also used to borrow some of his clothing from time to time and now Will is giving it back. “You need not put up a front.”

“We still have unfinished business, you and I.”

“Do we? Very well. I apologize for deceiving you and besmirching your honor, I am sure you would have certainly rescued me like the gentleman you are, now I really must leave – ”

“We both know that’s a lie.”

Will pauses and gives him a narrow-eyed glare. “I am leaving you.”

“No.” Hannibal takes a deep breath and draws his shoulders back, because he is a Lord and he was taught long ago the proper way to apologize. “I apologize, Will. You are correct that I am not sure whether I would have saved you, if I had known your orientation, and that is . . . unacceptable. I was . . . wrong. Not all omegas are alike.”

Will crosses his arms, clearly unimpressed. “I told you that no one was listening,” he says suspiciously. “No one even knows I’m leaving, much less why. You do not need to put on a front.”

“Oh, for – here!” Exasperated, Hannibal throws caution to the winds and risks another coshing to grab Will’s hand and raise it to his neck, where his heartbeat thrums a steady pulse. “You know how to listen to my heartbeat, yes? Let me say it again: _I was wrong_. I made a mistake. You are not distracting or foolish or witless and most certainly not useless. You are strong and clever and I am – I am glad I saved you. I am glad I have the opportunity to make your acquaintance.”

This close, all he can smell is Will, Will, and more Will. It smells like home and reassurance and warmth, and impulsively, he says, “You are a better person than me, Will Graham.”

“Oh, I already knew that,” Will replies, and then he draws back. His shoulders are softer now, as if the tension Will had carried for so long since Hannibal had carried him away from the pyre is finally gone.

“Please do not leave on my account,” Hannibal repeats.

Will sighs and looks down. “I can’t very well stay, now can I? You are far from the only Alpha to share such views. And if my secret got out – ”

“It won’t. I am a doctor, remember?”

“So?”

“Alpha suppressants. They are far more easily procured than Omega ones, and it won’t be an exact fit but they will cover up your scent better than whatever herbs you’ve been using. Plus Alphas will be far less likely to challenge you if you smell of Alpha than Beta.”

Will looks almost amused at the thought. “Hannibal, I cannot possibly pass as an Alpha.”

“Why not? You are strong and fierce and you are blessed with a steel of spine. I thought you were an Alpha.”

“Hannibal, you think everyone you admire is an Alpha.”

It stings a little, but Will’s tone is gentle enough for it be less of a rebuke and more a statement, which carries an accuracy Hannibal cannot quite deny. But now he’s curious, so he asks, “Why? How many others here are Omegas?”

Will gives him a sly smile. “Can your heart handle the shock, my lord?”

“Oh, get on with it, you brat.”

The list leaves Hannibal reeling. There are _so many_ that it might have been easier for Will to confirm who was actually an Alpha than to reveal who was not. There are so many brave and courageous soldiers just in this unit alone or who Hannibal have treated that the revelation of just how blind he has been leaves him reeling and groping alongside the bed for solid ground.

And Will can never leave well enough alone, because he climbs up onto the bed and leans his shoulder against Hannibal, lending him warmth and a familiar if slightly sweeter scent, and Hannibal gives in and clutches him close.

Will lets him, for a few minutes, and then he can feel Will’s nose wrinkling from where it’s buried in Hannibal’s neck.

“What?”

“You smell terrible,” Will informs him. “Go and change before you catch a cold.”

Hannibal sweeps him an elaborate bow. “As my king commands,” he mocks, because this is the joke between them, and Will laughingly pushes him off the bed and just like that, they’re back in their old rhythm. 

That night, Hannibal lies awake and miserable until finally, there’s a slight pressure at the edge, and then Will clambers in and presses his cold nose to Hannibal’s neck, and Hannibal is not nearly so proud as to refuse the olive branch. Instead he wraps his arms around Will’s comforting, familiar weight and inhales his scent, which now that he’s got a good whiff of, he can clearly pick out beneath the suppressing scent of the herb paste.

“Okay,” Will whispers, “I won’t leave today. Maybe tomorrow.”

* * *

Will doesn’t leave tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.

Hannibal gets the pleasure of seeing what a real Omega can do: how Will can diffuse a fight in three seconds, how Will can calm an agitated soldier before an operation, how Will can mother hen all of them into eating and sleeping better. How Will can stand before a furious man and not flinch, how Will can snarl and snap and fight, how Will can calculate sums in his brilliant mind with nary a pause and hardly any preparation. How beautiful he is in his defiance and his cleverness, like a diamond forged by the fires of Alphas like Hannibal looking down on him and all the more precious for it.

And Hannibal learns how to handle an Omega – or at least, how to handle Will. How he can soothe Will’s agitation with touch, how he can reassure Will with a hand to the neck, how he can curl his body around Will and offer protection in sleep.

And Hannibal thinks back on his grandfather’s letter and thinks, _Maybe marrying an omega will not be such a tragic fate after all._

Discretely, he writes to his grandfather and inquires for any knowledge of a Will Graham or a Lord Graham or any Graham, really, and the reply takes so long to come that Hannibal’s almost forgotten about it when it finally does. The letter gives him hope, as well as more suspicions about his grandfather’s surprisingly reticence on the subject, so Hannibal of course blurts it out like the blundering Alpha he is that night as they prepare to sleep.

“Did you know that a child of your house was originally betrothed?”

“Betrothed?” Will repeats, sounding bewildered. “Certainly not, no one ever came calling and my father did not have any other children. To who?”

Hannibal clears his throat and holds out the letter, because Will’s only coshed him once but the memory is very strong and he has little desire to repeat the experience in any way, shape or form, and Will’s narrowed eyed, considering look promises a coshing if Hannibal does not give him all of the information immediately.

“To Lord Clarges,” Will reads, and a furrow appears between his eyebrows. “I have never heard of them.”

“Apparently there was an arrangement a very long time ago for the next Omega or female child.”

“I think I shall be a grave disappointment,” Will says frankly. “Perhaps I should not go along with your plans for reintroduction to society.”

“Ah, no, you are not getting out of that,” Hannibal tells him, and Will actually _pouts_. “My grandfather has already made the necessary inquiries and preparation for that as soon as we return. It is not every day that a scion of a vanished house returns.”

“Ugh, parties. I do not even want to be married.”

Hannibal thinks of the second half of the letter, buried deep within his clothes, and says nothing.

* * *

When they return to society, Will gets exactly two seconds of peace to drink one swallow of tea before his relatives descend on him, chattering on about his beautiful curls and lovely eyes and slender curves, and Will is dragged out the door before he can so much as squeak. 

Hannibal waves theatrically at him from the window and sees the way Will’s eyes are practically imagining bashing him in the head, so he quickly retreats.

He has his own plans to carry out.

* * *

Will writes to him, sometimes, bemoaning the fact that he is treated more like a porcelain doll than a battle-hardened soldier. _They are putting powder on my face and an obscene assortment of frilly attire on my limbs and it is so tiring,_ he complains, and his handwriting is so beautiful that Hannibal would have saved it for that alone – except, of course, that he saves all of Will’s letters. _I am almost tempted to risk a burning to escape them anew._

 _Take heart,_ Hannibal writes back. _Perhaps your suitor shall sweep you away from the dragons and bring you to your own castle, where you may clothe yourself as you wish._

 _I believe Omegas are only allowed one rescue from a knight in shining armor, and my chance was sadly spent on the likes of you,_ Will writes, and it makes Hannibal laugh.

* * *

The next time their paths cross, Will is a very unhappy Omega who does indeed have an obscene amount of powder and frills thrust upon him, and the way his eyes widen when he spots Hannibal strolling casually up to him. His hands twitch, and it is only through great courage – and a great deal of reassuring looking about the room to see that there is nothing in Will’s reach – that allows Hannibal to smile and stand next to him.

“And what are you doing here, Lord Lecter?” Will hisses. “I am promised to – ”

“Lord Clarges. I am aware.”

That Will has abandoned suppressants is clear. Whether through choice or by force, Hannibal is not sure, but Will’s scent is warm and sweet in the air and Hannibal has inhaled twice very deeply before he’s even aware. It is familiar and comforting. 

“Are you to be his proxy then? I have heard of that arrangement.”

Hannibal just hums.

“I am very tempted,” Will says stiltedly, “to find a river and a fish, or perhaps to throttle you with my veil.”

“Your trembling hands say as much.”

“Hmm. Do not tempt me further.”

* * *

Will is, perhaps, so annoyed and exhausted by the ceremony and numerous relatives that throng him that he does not question when Hannibal lifts him out of the carriage and guides him gently into Hartford House. He just follows, trying very hard not to trip over the hem of his dress, and then falls upon the plate of food the servants have left out as if he is a starving wolf. 

Hannibal eats at a more sedately pace, and waits to see when Will’s brain will wake up.

Will is exactly three bites into his pastry when he suddenly says, “Why have you not called for my husband to come? Surely your duties are done as the proxy.”

Hannibal takes a long sip of tea, smiling faintly. “Well now, that is a very interesting tale,” he remarks. “For you see, House Clarges ceased to exist only one generation ago. My mother was the last of House Clarges, and she brought with her all of the wealth and debts owed to House Lecter when she married my father. I am Lord Clarges in all but name.”

Being coshed by a pastry is, perhaps, less painful than being coshed by a trout, but, Hannibal reflects, it is far harder to wipe off pastry cream in a dignified fashion than it is to wash away river water.

Will, for his part, sulks in the bath until at last Hannibal shoulders his way inside the washroom.

“What are you doing?”

“Bathing with my husband,” Hannibal says calmly, and drops his towel as he smirks at the way Will reddens and averts his eyes. The past months in society have done Will many favors – his torso has filled out, his skin is smooth and silky, and his curls have been well-cared for. If he had been beautiful back in the camp, hiding under an Alpha’s scent and saving the lives of soldiers with steady hands, now he is absolutely stunning. “Come now, Will, we have seen each other bared of clothing before.”

Will squeaks when Hannibal slips into the bath behind him. “It is – not quite the same,” he says, blushing.

Hannibal tucks his nose against Will’s trembling neck and smiles. For all his words and tone, Will does not smell distressed, only surprised and somewhat amused. “Are you still waiting for a proper apology, is that it?” he murmurs. “Husband of mine.”

“Perhaps,” Will says, and slaps at Hannibal’s hand when it dips below the waterline. “Perhaps I am merely considering the best way to drown you and be rid of you for good.”

“I met you by fire,” Hannibal muses, “perhaps it is only fitting that I die by water.”

“You are so dramatic.”

“Only the best for you.” 

Will sighs and turns around, and here now, with steam curling around him and pink in his cheeks and a sly smile on his face, Hannibal revises his earlier decision: Will is not simply stunning, Will is breathtaking. Hannibal actually stops breathing when Will leans close and sniffs delicately at his throat, which Hannibal bears without a moment’s hesitation, and he’s too busy holding himself absolutely still for Will’s inspection to take in the shock that he’s just bared his throat for an Omega.

Which is why when Will kisses him, very gently, Hannibal is most certainly not expecting it.

Thankfully, Will does not take offense. 

“I suppose I can forgive you, given that any payment I might demand would be coming from the same House that I now call my own,” Will says thoughtfully. “Although do not take that to mean that any and all future offenses will be forgiven so easily.”

“Well,” Hannibal says, curling his fingers over Will’s hips and scenting his curls, “I already knew that. I expect at least one coshing before I can begin any apology.”

Embarrassment turns Will’s face a wonderful red color and turns his scent sweet and thick like honey. “That was only twice!” he protests.

“And a most effective punishment it was.”

“I am not above making you sleep in the guest bedroom.”

“Why, my Marchioness, I did not take you to be so familiar in the art of domestic politics,” Hannibal says, delighted. 

“You were the one who sent a list of requirements including well-read and well-versed in domestic maneuvering, my Marquess.”

“Ah, so I did. My apologies.”

“Ah ah,” Will says, smiling. “You know the rules. A coshing first, apology later.”

“And what, pray tell, is to be your poor victim this time to teach your husband a lesson?” Hannibal asks, although he’s more far more focused on cataloging the scent of Will’s skin as he runs his nose down Will’s chest, and he is even more delighted at how the flush travels down the length of Will’s torso. 

“Ah – I shall determine that – at a – later time, perhaps,” Will replies, squirming, and Hannibal takes that as acquiescence to continue a thorough exploration of his new husband.

* * *

Later, Hannibal will host a very public celebratory bonfire, although Will gives him a flat look when he announces it.

“What?” Hannibal will say, innocently. “I am merely signaling to the world my good fortune in acquiring a prize such as you. Such a useful thing, this burning, to carry on the message and the celebration.”

“Hannibal,” his husband will exclaim in exasperation, “I overcome that months ago – ”

“And now we will celebrate that overcoming with the world,” Hannibal will say determinedly. “For you could never be useless, and this burning will serve me quite well in informing all of society as such. Useful things, my dear, are fit only for loving, and I find you quite useful indeed.”

And if they slip away from their own party and reemerge in clean but remarkably different clothing than before, well, that is a story that is reserved for private retellings only.

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all mistakes are mine, all of these words just sorta tumbled out in about 3 and a half hours and after that I was really in no mood to edit it. 
> 
> If you haven't read [Overcoming](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10024469/chapters/22345538) yet, PLEASE do. It's an amazing ABO Victorian/regency arranged marriage with an enormous helping of angst and slow burn and an nice flavoring of Hannibal getting coshed. Plus great artwork and inspired works by other talented creators! (Although if you're just holding back until you can binge-read it's amazingness in one mind-melting day I suppose that's acceptable)


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